One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [164]
Taking the newspaper with him, he went out to the Internet café on Astor Place. He did some research and, finding the information he needed, constructed a fake e-mail account under the name Craig Akio. Then he composed an e-mail stating that he—Craig Akio—had seen the cross in the home of Sandy Brewer. Paul addressed the e-mail to the reporter who’d written the piece in the Times. Out of habit, Paul reread the e-mail, and, finding it satisfactory, hit “send.”
Heading out into the weekend bustle of lower Broadway, Paul felt calm for the first time in weeks. As he entered One Fifth, he smiled, thinking about how no one was safe in the information age. But for the moment, at least, he was.
17
For Billy Litchfield, April brought not only spring showers but debilitating tooth pain. The miserable weather was exacerbated by what felt like one endless visit to the dentist’s office. A dull pain that grew into a pounding percussion of agony finally drove him to the dentist, where an X-ray revealed that he had not one, but two decaying roots demanding immediate surgery. The situation required several appointments involving novocaine, gas, antibiotics, soft foods, and thankfully, Vicodin to ease the pain.
“I don’t understand,” Billy protested to the dentist. “I’ve never had even a cavity.” This was a bit of an exaggeration, but nevertheless, Billy’s teeth—which were naturally white and straight, requiring only two years of braces as a child—had always been a source of pride.
The dentist shrugged. “Get used to it,” he said. “It’s part of getting older. Circulation goes to hell, and the teeth are the first to go.”
This made Billy more depressed than usual, and he upped his dosage of Prozac. He’d never been at the mercy of his body, and he found the experience not only humbling but capable of erasing every important achievement in his life. What the philosophers said was true: In the end, there was only decay and death, and in death, everyone was equal.
One afternoon while he was recovering from the latest injustice done to his jaw (a tooth had been removed and a metal screw inserted in its place—he was still waiting for the fake tooth to be constructed in the lab), there was a knock on his door.
The man who stood in the hallway was a stranger in a navy blue Ralph Lauren suit. Before Billy could respond, the man flashed a badge at him. “Detective Frank Sabatini,” he said. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” Billy said, too shocked to refuse. As the detective followed him into his tiny living room, Billy realized he was still wearing his robe and had a vision of himself, hands cuffed, going to jail in the paisley silk number.
The detective flipped open a notebook. “Are you Billy Litchfield?” he asked.
For a second, Billy considered lying but decided it might only make things worse. “I am,” he said. “Officer, what’s wrong? Has someone died?”
“Detective,” Frank Sabatini said. “Not Officer. I worked hard for the title. I like to use it.”
“As well you should,” Billy said. Explaining the robe, he added, “I’m recuperating from some dental work.”
“That’s tough. I hate the dentist myself,” Detective Sabatini said pleasantly enough.
He didn’t sound like he was ready to make an arrest, Billy thought. “Do you mind if I get changed?” Billy asked.
“Take your time.”
Billy went into his bedroom and closed the door. His hands shook so fiercely, he had a hard time taking off the robe and putting on a pair of corduroy slacks and a red cashmere sweater. Then he went into his bathroom and gulped